David Gemmel - The Hawk Eternal

“Be that as it may, Cambil,” put in the white-haired Laric, Hunt Lord of the Haesten, “but should any one man be allowed to set a precedent others will be forced to follow?” He was known to be a man rarely aroused to anger. Yet his thin face was flushed now, his fists clenched.

“It is my decision,” Cambil repeated stonily.

Laric bit back his anger. “The Aenir have no friends-only vassals. They have tried to scout all our lands and been turned back. You realize that if they win outright we are obliged to allow them access? The Games Champions can travel and hunt where they will.”

“They will not win,” said Cambil. “They are not clansmen.”

“Calling you a fool serves nothing,” said Laric, “for you have proven that beyond my speculation. What breaks my heart is that one man’s foolishness could bring about the ruin of the clans.” There was a gasp from the assembled Hunt Lords and Cambil sat very still, his face ashen.

Maggrig rose. “I am tempted to take the Pallides home, away from this stupidity, yet I cannot,” he said, “for without them the Aenir would have a greater chance of victory. I suspect it is the same for every lord here. But I tell you this, Cambil. Until now I have had scant respect for you. From today even that is a thing of the past. It matters not a whit to me if the Farlain are run by a fool; that hurts only the Farlain. But when you put the Pallides at risk I cannot forgive you.”

Color drained from Cambil’s face. “How dare you! You think I care what some potbellied out-clan thinks of me? Take your ragbag carles home. With or without the Aenir your Pallides would win nothing, only humiliation.”

“Hark, the Aenir lapdog can still bark,” snapped Maggrig.

“Enough of this!” stormed Laric, as Maggrig and Cambil moved toward each other. “Listen to me. I have no love for the Farlain, nor for the Pallides. But we are clansmen and no man will violate the spirit of the Games. There will be no violence among the Hunt Lords. The thing has been done and long will it be argued over. But it is done. Now let us consider the order of events, or we’ll be here all night.”

Later, as Maggrig and Laric walked back to their tents in the moonlight, the taller Haesten lord was deep in thought. Maggrig also kept silent. Laric-the oldest Hunt Lord in Druin, approaching sixty years of age-was also by far the wisest. Maggrig liked him, though he’d swallow live coals rather than tell him so.

They reached Laric’s tent first and the older man turned to Maggrig, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Cambil is a fool. He cannot see that which should be clear to every clansman. The Aenir are tomorrow’s enemy. My land borders yours, Maggrig, and we have had many disputes ere now, but if the Aenir cross Pallides land I shall bring my clansmen to your aid.”

Maggrig smiled. It was a nice ploy, but the fact remained that for the Aenir to cross Pallides borders they must march through either Farlain land or Haesten-and the Haesten were less powerful than the Farlain. Laric was asking for an ally.

“Between us we have perhaps two thousand fighting men,” said Maggrig. “Do you think they could stop an Aenir army?”

“Perhaps.”

“Agreed, then. We will be allies. I would expect, of course, to be War Lord.”

“Of course,” said Laric. “Good night.”

The following morning Maggrig stood alongside Asbidag, biting back his anger. The two men could have been brothers. Both had striking red beards flecked with silver, both were powerfully built. Deva watched them with anxiety. They were so similar-until you looked into their eyes. There was no evil in Maggrig. Deva looked away.

Cambil’s opening speech of welcome was short, and he quickly outlined the order of the Games. The first event would be the mountain run, five miles on a twisting circuit through woods and valleys. Three hundred men were entered and the Hunt Lords had decided on six qualifying races. The first five in each race would contest two semifinals, and fifteen of the fastest, strongest clansmen would run the final on the last day.

Other qualifying events were outlined and then it was left to Deva, in a flowing dress of white linen garlanded with flowers, to signal the start of the first race. The named athletes, Gaelen and Agwaine among them, jostled for position as Deva’s arm swept up, hovered momentarily, then flashed down and the race began.

Caswallon watched the start, saw Gaelen running smoothly in the center of the pack, and knowing the youth would qualify easily, he strolled to the market stalls on the edge of the field.

The stalls were doing brisk business in brooches, daggers, trinkets and tools, cloth, furs, blankets and shoes, meats, cheeses, fruit and vegetables. Caswallon eased through the massed crowds seeking a necklace for Maeg. Finding nothing to his taste, he bought a jug of mead and an oatmeal loaf. There were still one or two empty tables at the edge of the field and he chose a place away from the crowd where he would be alone with his thoughts. Since his talk with Maeg he had been less obsessed with the Aenir threat, but now, as was his way, he thought the problem through, examining every angle.

Morgase and Drada were sitting less than thirty paces away, but hidden by the crowd Caswallon did not see them. Morgase was bored, and her eyes flickered over the mass of people, seeking something of even passing interest. She saw the tall man walking to the empty table and her gaze lingered, her eyes widening in alarm. He wore a leaf-green cloak and a tunic of polished brown leather, while across his chest hung a baidric bearing two slim daggers. By his side was a long hunting knife. His trews were green laced with leather thongs. Morgase stared intently at the face. The short trident beard confused her, but the eyes were the same deep green she remembered so well.

And with such hatred…

She stood and walked over to where he sat. “Good morning,” she said, her throat tight, her anger barely controlled.

Caswallon looked up. Before him was a woman dressed in black, a sleek-fitting gown that hid nothing of her slender figure. Her dark hair was braided and curled like a crown on her head and pinned with gold. He rose. “Good morning, lady.” He gestured for her to be seated and asked if he could bring her refreshments. Then she saw Drada approaching, carrying two goblets of wine.

“How are you, Caswallon?” asked Drada.

“Well. Will you introduce me to the lady?”

“You do not know me then?” asked Morgase, surprised.

“I have been known to be forgetful, lady, but not insane. Such beauty as yours is unforgettable.”

She seemed confused, uncertain. “You are very like someone I once knew. Uncannily like.”

“I hope he was a friend,” said Caswallon.

“He was not.”

“Then allow me to make up for it,” he said, smiling. Will you join me?”

“No, I must go. But please, since you two know each other, why don’t you finish your drinks together?”

The men watched her walk away. “A strange woman,” said Drada.

“Who is she?”

“Morgase, my father’s consort. Beautiful but humorless.”

“She thought she knew me.”

“Yes. Are you taking part in the Games?”

“I am.”

“In what event?” asked Drada.

“Short sword.”

“I thought you were a runner?”

“I was. You are well informed. And you?”

“No, I’m afraid I excel at very little.”

“You seem to excel in the field of selection,” said Caswallon. “Rarely have I seen men train as hard.”

Drada smiled. “The Aenir like to win.”

“I wonder why?”

“What does that mean? No man likes to lose.”

“True. But no clansman trains for the Games; they are an extension of his life and his natural skills. If he loses, he shrugs. It is not the end of the world for him.”